Unspoken

by Lisa Jackson

  “I’ll be careful.” She broke out of his embrace and reached for the reins to her horse.

  His smile fell away. “You don’t have to be tough, you know.”

  “Sure I do, Nevada.” She climbed into the saddle and stared down at him for a long minute. “We both do.”

  Katrina rubbed the kinks from her neck and stared at the four walls of her tiny room in the Well, Come Inn. Dingy walls and yellowed, once-beige drapes surrounded a bed that sagged in the middle like a broken-down workhorse.

  She’d turned the television on earlier. It sat in the comer, muted, a sitcom she didn’t recognize offering up laugh tracks every few seconds or so. Lying on the back-breaker of a bed, her laptop balanced on her thighs, she tried to compose her notes, put them in some sort of order, while a glass of tequila sweated on the night stand. She’d only taken one sip, and the gawd-awful stuff had burned its way down her throat.

  Tired, restless and feeling like shit after her run-in with her jerk-off of a father, Katrina considered going back to the old ways and scrounging up a joint. Surely even in this backwater town there was a dealer who could hook her up with a few ounces of marijuana or cocaine.

  “Don’t even consider it,” she muttered, angry with herself. She’d tossed out the drugs along with her ex-husband, and nothing was putting her back on that one-way track, not even a run-in with the almighty Judge.

  Taking another sip from the now-warm tequila, Katrina thought there was surely a better way to slowly kill herself, then wrote down the poem she’d heard earlier that day at the White Horse Saloon. It was a knock-off of a nursery rhyme. At the time she’d thought it was funny, but it hit a little too close to the bone now.

  How’d it go? Oh, yeah.

  Ole Judge Cole was a nasty old soul,

  And a nasty old soul was he.

  That was it. She started typing again, her fingers flying as she heard a thud and an angry shout from the next motel room, a woman yelling in Spanish and a man answering back sharply. Great, Katrina thought, wondering if she’d be the victim of a random bullet fired because of a domestic squabble.

  The noise level from the television elevated with a local commercial for a weight-loss concoction and Katrina, though her concentration was about shot, kept working. She’d been promising the magazine her story but had kept putting them off, claiming she was polishing it, and with Caleb Swaggert’s death, she wanted to add a new angle, the slant that he might have been murdered in order to keep his mouth shut.

  This was a distinct possibility.

  Caleb Swaggert certainly was no Karen Silkwood. In fact, he could’ve been an out-and-out liar just trying to line his daughter’s pockets, but there was the distinct possibility that he’d known too much, was shooting his mouth off and pissing off someone who decided to take the old man’s fate into his own hands and silence Caleb for good. If that was the case, Katrina, too, might be in danger.

  Wonderful.

  The thought that someone might be out to get her had been her companion for the past few days, and as she glanced around the cinder-block walls of Room 18, she shivered inwardly. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she reminded herself. All good reporters faced their own mortality. Look at those guys who stayed in war-torn countries just for a story, the people who approached burning airplanes, or interviewed despots, all for the sake of fame.

  And yet ... she wasn’t fool enough to want to give up her life for the sake of a story. Fame was important; money even more so. But it wasn’t worth dying for. Though she would like nothing better than to expose Judge Jerome “Red” Cole for the son of a bitch he was, even satisfaction wasn’t worth her neck. That’s why she’d bought the gun—a small, silver pistol that fit neatly into her palm.

  God help her if she ever had to use it.

  She turned her attention back to her computer screen, and the fight in the room next door died down. A nightly drama flickered from the television screen, but she thought of Shelby Cole. The princess. Her half-sister. Unwed mother. Now that was interesting. The Judge, true to his loathsome, self-serving self, had not only denied Katrina her birthright, but had done the same with his own grandchild, Shelby’s daughter.

  Who was the father of that baby? Katrina wondered and made yet another note to herself. Shelby seemed hell-bent to find the kid, but wouldn’t it be a hoot if Katrina managed to do it first? After all, she had connections.

  She smiled to herself and nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” she said, shoving the computer aside and climbing to her feet. The gun was in her purse if she needed it.

  “You the reporter-woman?” an unfamiliar male voice called from the other side of the dead bolt.

  “Yes.” She reached for her handbag.

  “Good. I’m Ross McCallum.”

  Her heart stood still.

  “You hear me?”

  “Y-yes.” Oh, God. This was either the opportunity of a lifetime or her worst nightmare. Her pulse began to skyrocket as she unclasped her purse. “What can I do for you?”

  “Why don’t you open the door so we can talk?”

  Nothing ventured,nothing gained,she reminded herself yet again, the old adage suddenly becoming her litany. With one hand on her purse, she used the other to throw the dead bolt, unhook the chain and swing open the door.

  There he was. Backdropped by the blue glow of the streetlights, as bad-assed looking as any of the pictures she’d seen of him, he leaned against the doorjamb. “Mr. McCallum,” she said coolly, though she thought she might lose her bladder at any second. The man emanated pure evil. “Isn’t this a coincidence? I was just about to call and suggest we meet.”

  He snorted his disbelief and cold, humorless eyes stared straight through her, silently charging her with the lie. “Well then. let’s get down to it,” he said, glancing past her to the tiny, cramped room and the bottle of tequila that was capped on the bureau. “I figure now that Caleb Swaggert’s dead, you might want to work a deal with me.”

  So that was his game. “Possibly.”

  “What?” His head whipped around and he impaled her on those cold eyes. “Look, I expect the same deal you gave Swaggert. In exchange, you get my side of the story.”

  “Your testimony’s already a matter of public record, whereas Mr. Swaggert was changing his, risking perjury. I can’t offer you a dime until you can assure me that you have something more to add, something different, and even then I’ll have to talk to the magazine.”

  “Hey, I did my time. Spent over eight years payin’ for a crime I didn’t do, so don’t fuck with me.”

  “Then don’t you fuck with me,” she shot back. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, off the record. If I decide it’s worth paying for and printing, I’ll call the magazine.” She held his gaze and didn’t let on for a second that her insides suddenly felt like half-set Jell-O.

  He lifted one surprised eyebrow. One side of his mouth curved heavenward. “All right, missy—”

  “Katrina,” she insisted. “Or Ms. Nedelesky. Your choice.”

  “Katrina, then. Why don’t you buy me a drink?” He tipped his head toward the nearly full bottle.

  “Fair enough.” She walked out of the room, locking the door behind her. “Let’s go to the White Horse.” As eager as she was for his story, she wasn’t going to lock herself into a motel room alone with him. The saloon was just across the street, and there would be plenty of witnesses should he become aggravated, threatening or violent.

  “Someone might hear us.”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.” She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and held the bag firmly in her right hand. Together she and Ross walked through the parking lot and dodged traffic as they crossed the street.

  At the White Horse, Ross McCallum held the door open for her. Country music, conversation and a cloud of smoke rolled into the night.

  Nerves strung tight, knowing she might be about to start the int
erview of her life, Katrina stepped inside the tavern and wondered if she was about to share a drink with a murderer.

  She recognized some of the regulars. Manny Dauber and Badger Collins were shooting pool in a back corner. A group of Hispanic men leaned over the bar and watched a baseball game on the television set mounted over the bar. Half-a-dozen women were scattered at different tables, laughing, smoking and generally checking out the action. Ruby Dee was one of them, and as Katrina and Ross passed her booth, she visibly shrank and stared at the neon beer sign hanging in the window. Lucy Pride was tending bar and keeping an eye on the front door, watching everyone who entered. She winked at McCallum as he and Katrina made their way to a comer booth near the busboys’ station.

  More than one interested glance was tossed in their direction, and Katrina felt the mood in the bar shift, as if a silent undercurrent of electricity had followed them inside.

  “What can I get ya?” Lucy asked, appearing the minute Katrina set her purse on the bench seat next to her.

  “The regular,” Ross ordered.

  “Just a Coke.” Katrina wasn’t going to lose her edge.

  “You got it.” Lucy disappeared.

  “Kind of a lightweight, aren’t you?” Ross observed, leaning back on his spine and eyeing her.

  “This is business.”

  “Could be more.”

  “I don’t think so.” She leaned forward. “So why don’t you tell me why you think I would be interested in paying for your side of the story.”

  He grinned wickedly. “Because I know who killed Ramón Estevan,” he said.

  “And yet you spent eight years in jail.”

  “I was set up. Framed. Caleb Swaggert said as much, right? Wasn’t he paid to finger me?”

  Lucy reappeared with the drinks and Ross said, “Run a tab. The lady’s buying.”

  “That’s right,” Katrina agreed, her interest piqued, though she thought McCallum was shooting blanks.

  “You got it.” As hidden speakers from the jukebox began playing an old Patsy Cline hit, Ross took a swallow from his drink and Lucy, spying new patrons entering the White Horse, hurried back to the bar.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Katrina said, swirling her drink and watching a single maraschino cherry bob between the ice cubes. “Who killed Ramón Estevan?”

  Ross didn’t bat an eye. “Nevada Smith.”

  “Wait a minute. He was working for the Sheriffs Department at the time. It was his truck you were in, and what possible motive would he have?”

  “He hated Estevan. The old man had a bad temper. Everyone in town knew that.”

  Katrina sipped her Coke. Waited.

  “Well, before Smith got involved with Shelby Cole, he was hanging around the Estevan house, seeing Ram6n’s daughter.”

  “Vianca.”

  “Yep.”

  “So—” Katrina prodded as Patsy crooned and the smoke in the bar seemed to thicken.

  “The old man didn’t like the fact that Nevada basically dumped his daughter for Shelby Cole.” Ross took a long swig from his beer and frowned. “Estevan had a temper. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone in town.”

  This she already knew. Caleb Swaggert had alluded to Ramón Estevan as being a “hot-headed Mexican,” and a few of the other townspeople Katrina had interviewed had seemed to agree, though it was hard to tell.

  “So Nevada Smith and Shelby Cole were dating about the time Ramón was killed.”

  Ross’s eyes slitted. “Yep.”

  She did the math quickly and figured Nevada Smith was the father of Shelby’s child. Well, wasn’t that interesting? The very man Ross McCallum was trying to blame for the murder, the one who had seen that Ross took the rap for Estevan’s death, was the father of Shelby’s child. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she muttered, taking a sip from her glass. “You have any proof?”

  “No more than he did when he set me up.”

  “Wait a minute—‘set you up’? You mean that he framed you?”

  “Call it anything you want.” Ross finished his beer and motioned to Lucy for another. “Now, listen, have we got a deal or not?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, empty glass between meat hooks of hands. “I ain’t spillin’ my guts without gettin’ paid. At least as much as what you were givin’ Swaggert.”

  McCallum’s eyes flared, and Katrina thought he wasn’t bad looking. Of course he dressed like a hick in his faded T-shirt, worn jeans and scruffy boots, but it was his attitude, the rage that simmered just beneath the surface of his skin, that stole whatever leanings he had toward handsome and made him appear malevolent.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. “What’s your number? I’ll call you.”

  Ross’s smile was slow and evil. “Don’t have a phone, but don’t worry, honey. I’ll catch up ta you again.” He offered her a wink that made her blood run cold.

  “Good,” she said, fishing in her purse and finding a twenty-dollar bill that she left on the table. Her fingers brushed the barrel of her little gun and she wondered if she’d ever have the guts to use it. “Until then.” She managed a grin to match his, but walked out of the bar on legs made of rubber.

  She knew, without a moment’s hesitation, that Ross McCallum belonged behind bars.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I don’t care what you have to do, Levinson, just help me find my kid,” Nevada growled into the telephone. He was hot, tired and as frustrated as hell. Two of his mares were off their feed, the tractor had died in the south paddock and he thought he’d seen Shep Marson’s truck rolling out of the next drive—the lane to the Adams place, now his property—yesterday afternoon. But he hadn’t been sure. The sun had been wicked. Low, harsh, blinding rays had glinted off the pickup’s fender. By the time Nevada had put his old truck through its gears chasing after the intruder’s rig, the truck had been little more than a speck in front of a wake of dust.

  Nevada had been left with the feeling that something bad was about to happen. Worse yet, he was worried sick about Shelby. Sure as shootin’, she was gonna get herself into trouble. That thought nagged at him and he took it out on Levinson. “There’s got to be a way to find her.”

  “Doin’ my level best.” Levinson’s tone was flat. Noncommittal.

  “So am I.” Nevada had visited the hospital where Elizabeth had been born, bribed an administrative aide into finding out who had been working in the maternity ward that week, talked to as many doctors, nurses and aides as he could locate, but no one had been on duty the night Shelby Cole delivered her baby. Or no one was talking.

  “I’ll keep workin’ on it.”

  “Do. And check out some of these people.” Nevada listed the names of the hospital workers he hadn’t been able to locate-people who might have been working on the night Shelby gave birth.

  “Will do.”

  “And don’t forget Ross McCallum.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” Levinson said with a smile in his voice. “I intend to find out everything about that ol’ boy that I can.”

  “Good.”

  There was a pause; then the private investigator said, “While I’m at it, I thought I might try to locate your mother.”

  Nevada’s jaw turned to granite. “Don’t bother.”

  “I just thought, seein’ as you’re tryin’ to locate your daughter, it might be a good time to—”

  “Forget it.” Nevada was firm. The woman who’d borne him had walked out the door when he was too young to remember her. He could only figure that she just plain hadn’t wanted him—for what reason, he couldn’t imagine. As a boy he’d tried to understand her rejection, and deep in the darkest regions of his soul he suspected that somehow he hadn’t been good enough, though in his rational mind he knew there were more concise, concrete reasons that she’d left. She’d been young. Her husband had been a drunk. She’d had to escape to survive.

  But she’d left Nevada.

  As far as he knew, she’d never looked back. She could be dead. Wasting away
in a nursing home. Living the high life in a villa on the Mediterranean. It didn’t much matter. She wasn’t a factor in his life, but she was one of the singular reasons that he intended to find and connect with his own child.

  If Elizabeth and whoever had adopted her would let him.

  If he even found her. His left fist curled in frustration as his right clenched around the receiver.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” Levinson said.

  “I won’t.”

  Nevada hung up and felt restless, like an anxious stallion who senses an invisible predator lurking nearby. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he told himself that he was just imagining things, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was about to go down. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  “Blast it all to hell,” he growled, wishing he had a Marlboro, though he’d given up the habit years before. He needed something to settle him down. Being in the same county with Shelby, knowing she was close by, worrying for her safety, knowing McCallum was up to no good and not being able to find his kid were driving him out of his mind.

  The phone rang and he tensed. Probably the damned anonymous caller again. He grabbed the receiver and barked a gruff, “Hello.”

  “Smith?”

  He recognized the voice. The tension in his shoulders tightened. All his attention focused on the conversation as he leaned a jean-clad hip against the counter. “Judge Cole.”

  “I think we should meet,” Shelby’s father said without preamble.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll find out when you get there.”

  “Get where?”

  There was a second’s hesitation, and Nevada wondered what Red Cole had up his sleeve. Nevada looked through the torn screen to the back porch where Crockett lay, ears cocked, on a rag rug.

  “My office downtown,” the Judge decided. “Ten o’clock tonight.”

  Nevada glanced at his watch. It wasn’t quite eight. “Why don’t you just tell me whatever you want to over the phone?”